What is Pourquois?
by Aea
Summary: Dinklage has to watch out for everyone. At what cost? "I will believe thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character."
1. Idle Shallow Things: Monique

So, it was suggested to me that writing a one-shot could be a good way to get through writer's block. Chapter 6 of Play On is actually going pretty well, but I had to send part of it off for a sort of pre-beta because I was worried I adding in too much extra stuff and not putting in enough plot;-) To help clear out my mind so I can look at it with a more critical eye, I decided to shift gears a little bit. I actually had the idea for this little piece _before_ I started Play On, but the concept gradually shifted and this was eventually forgotten. Not so any longer! It's a little bit different than my normal thing, so I'm counting on reviews to tell me how this turns out;-) The original prompt: Why is Monique's room is covered in purses?

Disclaimer: I don't own Monique, She's the Man, Hermès, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, Yves Saint-Lauren, Valentino or anything else. I wish very much that I did.

Idle Shallow Things: Monique

Her father has five older brothers, and she has none. She's got a pack of uncles, with a whole host of male cousins, but no brothers of her own. No little sisters, either, unless you count her ex-step-sister (she doesn't). She's pretty sure that's why it started.

Monique Valentine, DAR darling. Future Junior League extraordinaire.

A pretty girl, with pretty dresses and pretty shoes. Girly as girly gets. Her grandma probably didn't encourage that on purpose, and she's long past the point where she doesn't know any better herself. But at four years old, she realized that she was _the_ girl, the only little lady in the family, and all the pink ribbons and shiny shoes that no one got to buy for the last generation were to be heaped upon her whether she wanted it or not (other girls wore scuffed sneakers). They just wanted a little girl, and she thought it was good enough to be wanted. There was nothing wrong with being loved for what she was, even if she wouldn't be it forever.

Every Christmas, birthday, trip to a relative's house, or sometimes 'just because' she got all the latest things to make her a pretty girl. Pretty girls were better than the regular kind, you know. She got her ears pierced at age three. Her first Hermès bag at nine. First dyed her hair at thirteen (first kiss happened sometime between those things, too, but no one ever wanted to know). Sometime after the trips to the salon started, the family started asking about the ultimate in accessories: a boyfriend. Sometimes they even found her one or two that she might like. She collected them too- like her bangle bracelets- in different sizes and colors, some for everyday, and some for special occasions (depending on what they're made of). Sometimes- just like the bracelets- she dropped or broke one. Once in awhile, she even did it on purpose (only for the ugly ones she can't take anywhere). Sometimes one she likes starts to roll away, and then she has to chase after it (across the floor or a pizzeria).

It's hard to be so pretty, but she's the girl and someone's got to do it. Everyone wants her to be, and she won't let them down.

Once, when she was little, her grandma took her to Paris for a week. She remembers holding her grandma's hand as they quickly maneuvered along the Champs-Élysées. It was there, with crowds of people brimming with strange words, that she pressed her face against the glass window of Louis Vuitton and knew what it was like to understand real love.

It was lots of time and attention to make it right, soft on the inside, strong on the outside, all wrapped up in the right name and it would follow you anywhere. It would carry everything you needed to get by inside, and in return you would always hold it close. Love.

There was a sharp lesson learned in the store that day too: love costs quite a bit (she sometimes can't tell if that message never stuck or if she listened to it too well. Sometimes she doesn't know the difference because love rarely listens anyway.).

And she knew that it was, indeed, love. It was just harder than she thought to find it outside of a store. The bright pink storybooks, full of princesses and happily-ever-after never prepared her for this. Sleeping Beauty and Snow White had it so easy! No princes ever turned up at her house on their own, so she had Christian, Yves, and Valentino delivered to the door by request. The bags became more dependable than the boys, after awhile. None of them seemed to be able to hold all the things she kept inside her (she'd keep them closer if they did). They certainly weren't willing to follow her anywhere; they took off for video games and sporting events at the drop of a hat. Not one of them wanted to stay with her when her grandmother died (but it might have been because she wasn't so pretty during all that, and it would be a few years yet before she learned to hide tears with mascara and cover-up).

But she was given a set of beautiful antique picture frames from her grandma's estate. "Put loved ones in them" her father had said, "so they can look after you."

She found two prints of old-fashioned purses (fancy French ones, like her grandma bought her) and hung the frames next to her bed. After that, everyone gave her more and more, and she was happy to accept them. There are some things she can count on in her life, at least. She knows what her its takes to be her true love, and she's happy to tell anyone who wants to know (no one does; now her older cousins have plenty of little girls of their own to keep the family happy).

Boys date her because she's pretty, but that doesn't help her carry any of the weight. Girls don't like her because she isn't struggling with crushes and drama like theirs. She knows what she's looking for, she just can't find it. She thought Sebastian Hastings might be close enough. He didn't like sports, and thought video games were a waste of time (he wrote her a song once, but refused to play it for anyone else). Her now ex-boyfriend told her that her voice over the phone sounded like a screeching owl, so she thought about only calling him when he left a message or called her first (he never calls first). He ran off without saying a word every so often (she had a Vuitton bag stolen once, and is pretty sure it feels kind of the same), and liked to create scenes in public. She was willing to pay that cost for him too; neither of them were perfect. She loses them if she just lets them go like that.

She wants a boy to have everything her purse does, and every boy wants to just purse her lips and be pretty. In the end, everyone knows what they want and she supposes it's a fair trade.

* * *

This was inspired by listening to the She's the Man DVD commentary, in which it is pointed out that Monique's bedroom (which is only shown in one scene) was decorated with as many purse pictures and items as possible. It was a joke for the production team, but of course, I don't like anything to be meaningless ;-) There has to be some kind of explanation for everything! Anyway, I hope you all liked this, and keep an eye out for my other story, Play On, which will have an update upcoming.


	2. A World To Hide Virtues In: Justin

A World to Hide Virtues In: Justin

So I decided to turn this into a sort-of-series of one-shots…how many? I don't know. But this should be the last one until the next chapter of Play On is finished. Blame quirky21 for requesting another one-shot and making me think of Justin in a better light;-) Each piece in this series will be based on a question about a character, have a title that is quoted from the play, and will be less than 1200 words (originally I tried for less than one thousand, but I'm not that good at short!).

Disclaimer: I don't own Twelfth Night or She's the Man, or any characters from either one.

The question: Why would Justin keep trying to talk to Viola?

A World to Hide Virtues In: Justin

"I think I have the trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria." - Twelfth Night

She didn't talk to him beforehand, and that was her first mistake. She wouldn't talk to him after, and that was her second. He tried, God knows he did, to find her. He left message after message, inviting her to scream at him, insult, or hit him. Whatever it would take to get her to listen. He called her mom's house, and then stopped by there in person. He was told she was at her dad's place, but that was a bust too. He went to a Junior League debutante meeting with his mother, combed every park and soccer field in the city looking for her. Drove over to Cristofer's to ask her friend Paul. Begged Kia and Yvonne to get her to call him. Left a message on her _brother's_ cell phone, of all things, because he knew her well enough to know that she told him everything and that guy had enough experience with stubborn girls that he might be willing to help.

No one would tell him anything. No one had seen her, or would admit to it if they had. Paul took the most pity on him; he knew that at least she was okay, if AWOL.

So he didn't talk to her before or after the boy's team first practice either, and that was his mistake, even though it wasn't like he didn't try. She didn't give him any warning that she was going to show up at Pistonek's practice. He had thought she was a fighter. All the time her knew her, since their freshman year, she had _never_ run away from anything. Except now, when it was most important. Every time he thought about how willing she was to walk away from him, he felt short of breath. Had she been looking for a reason to end things? Had he missed the signs that it wasn't working?

"_When we first started going out, you couldn't kiss at all."_ It had seemed like a joke at the time; her eyes had been full of mischief, her smile a little flirty. Or was that just his own desire? Maybe the smile was more smug than happy, the eyes full of deception. He felt used. How much of the time, the _years,_ they'd spent practicing together had she planned on just walking away when she was through with him?

Why wouldn't she just talk to him? In almost two years of dating, hadn't he earned even one iota of faith? His chest felt heavy again.

The whole thing was a disaster, and Justin couldn't figure out why the school cut the girls team at all. He blamed the Headmaster, largely, and Coach Pistonek. If the school hadn't cut their team to begin with, none of this would have ever happened. Viola was at fault too; if she had just come to him before interrupting practice, he could have warned her off. He could have made her understand.

She never had a chance.

She could have fought her way on to the team, he knows. She could have kept at it, badgered Coach and the administration until they gave in. Even threatening as much would see Pistonek cave in a heartbeat. She could go to the district, raise enough complaints to get a Title IX investigation. Cornwall was part of the CIAC, and would have to allow her to play on boy's team if pressed. But Justin had hoped, in the few futile seconds he had to think about it while Viola had asked Coach to try out, that it wouldn't come to that. He'd played on this team, under that coach, for going on four years and he knew how things went. The team adapted the character of its coach, flawed though it may be. If Viola tried out, she'd probably make the official roster, if only to appease everyone.

No, she'd definitely make it. And Pistonek would use her in practice, as a great tool to prepare them for tough competition, though he may not say as much.

But she'd never see a minute of game time.

She was too good to have to settle for that. She wanted play in college, be on the national team. Benchwarmers didn't win much confidence from college scouts, even at Michigan. So even though it wasn't the best moment, Justin knew that he had to act. She was a fighter; she wouldn't back down. But it would be better for everyone if she were rebuffed right now. He could find a minute to tell her afterword, and she could carry on with the fight to bring back the girls team. There was still two weeks before school started; more than three until the girl's league season began. He had every faith that Viola could get her team back, and be its star. But to let her wither away third-deep on the roster wouldn't do anyone any favors. She would understand, afterwards, and agree with him, he was sure. She didn't want to spend the season sitting on her ass anymore than he wanted her too.

Pistonek tied his own noose, really, by not letting her play; he tightened it with the 'girls aren't as good as guys' speech in front on the entire girls team. Justin couldn't help but be amused at his sheer stupidity. But there was a danger here, too, and Viola just didn't seem to get it. Rotting away on the sideline would kill her, and he couldn't watch it happen. Even if this were the thing that finally got the embattled soccer coach canned, it wouldn't happen fast enough to save her playing time.

"_Justin, you're the team captain, what do you think?"_ His word wouldn't change Coach's mind, and Viola should have known it. Everyone else did. But disagreement would only damn her case forever, and break the team in two. Coach Pistonek was not the sort of man who tolerated being proven wrong (no matter how often he was).

"_I think the coach said it all." _It was a carefully couched response; Justin had nothing he wanted to add. Coach would assume he agreed, and Viola was smart enough to read between the lines.

Only this time, she wasn't.

Maybe she was too angry, too shocked. He could understand that, on some level. He had tried to put an end the conversation, knowing that it would only dig the hole deeper. He had tried, in so many words, to convey his thoughts to her: _"I just don't want to see you get hurt."_ But she missed it.

Altogether, a ridiculous reason to fight. They would fix it, he was sure. He would walk away from his team too, if that's what she wanted.

In the end, it was just a stupid soccer issue. No way was it more important than _them._


	3. Sweet and Cunning Hand: Yvonne

I think this is the toughest challenging I've put to myself to date. It was a mighty struggle to get this down to 1200 words, and I'm not totally convinced that I was successful. But still, rules are rules;-) This story deals with what one of the members of the Cornwall girls may have been feeling during the movie. We know that Kia and Yvonne were at the game cheering for Viola, but what about _their_ team?

The question: Why didn't Viola return to Cornwall? What about the rest of the Cornwall girl's team?

Disclaimer: I don't own Twelfth Night or She's the Man, or any characters from either one. I'll give major kudos to anyone who recognizes the names I gave the trustees, which I'm using only out of the utmost respect and honor.

Red and White, Sweet and Cunning Hand: Yvonne  
"Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?" – Twelfth Night

Black/red, and white/blue. Best girl's team. Top boy's team. You couldn't get much different than Cornwall and Illyria. Everyone knows it.

No, not different; when you get down to it, we're pretty similar. Our schools are the finest in the county; it takes a lot of influence from your parents or years on a waiting list for your lucky soul to get into either one. The sports teams are second only to the academics when it comes to competitiveness. You can have friends- everyone here will tell you they do- but don't think that'll hold up when it comes time to determine who gets into Yale and who ends up at Stratford Community College. Or who gets to start and who hands out the Gatorade. That person you helped tutor in English will sandbag you on the field. That cute guy who always flirted during PE will sabotage your lab results in chemistry to help curve his grade.

This is a prep school. They're prepping us all to survive in a dog-eat-dog reality. What they don't teach here is loyalty and sometimes it shows.

Take Viola Hastings for instance. I've known her since our days in the U-8 league. We've played with and against each other. Viola was always a good sport and a better teammate. She liked winning as much as the rest of us, and was willing to put in the hard work to get there. So by the time we both landed spots on the Cornwall team, I would have called her a friend too, even though we've had some unflattering competitive moments. She wanted to be the best, and never cared that being Cornwall's captain or getting a starting spot at UNC was probably a little beyond her ability. I liked that about her almost as much as I was annoyed by it.

Then in the spring our Headmistress was suddenly forced out and replaced by one of those efficiency-manic MBA types. Suddenly every sports team had to prove it was worth its financial salt, and the low-attendance ladies' games really felt the bite. So over the summer, out went the new practice equipment and in came mandatory participation fees. The GPA requirement went up, and excused absence days went down. Even with all that, we rallied. We were a team, and knew we could pull through. This was my year as captain, and I wasn't letting go that easily.

Soccer was the most important thing to Viola, but our team was- _is_- the most important to me. I should have seen the difference.

We were willing to keep our grades up, travel on a bus all night and still show up for class the next day, and suffer silently while the school raked in even more money. We just needed to convince the incoming freshmen that there was a future in it. Easier said than done.

So it was horrifying, but not altogether shocking, to go into the Headmaster's office for the news and tell the others. We'd discussed the chances before. We already had a few thoughts in place.

We had sworn we weren't going down without a fight. There were plenty of options left. Do some heavy recruiting. Petition the board, the administration, or the coaches. Pistonek turned his back on us the first chance he got (to no one's surprise), but Viola was strangely shaken by Justin's reaction.

I didn't notice at the time, but really, it happened right then. "End of relationship" indeed. Viola cut her strings to the team. She was out to prove _herself_. Now, she was fighting to beat Justin, not to win back the team. _Our_ team. Our chance to go to college didn't concern her, nor did our friendship.

We didn't really like her next idea, but we helped all we could, of course. We were friends too, even if our chances of remaining teammates dwindled, and it was fun to play dress up or pose as a clingy girlfriend. But day after day passed and no one heard from her anymore. We made plans to meet up at the carnival a week later, but Viola only showed for a few minutes. We were running on borrowed time, and Viola just didn't seem to care that there was more at stake than humiliating her ex. "Beating Cornwall" was all she would talk about.

Not exactly our savior.

So in the meantime, Kia and I started talking to anyone who'd listen. We went to a meeting of the board of trustees and pled our case, laying out all the sacrifices we were willing to make, just for the chance to play. I rattled off all the girls who had chosen to come to Cornwall because of our impressive history of champions. The rest of the team ("I can't make it." Viola had excused, "I sort of have to go on a date tonight.") stood up in the gallery and applauded.

Trustee Mink gave us small smile. "You ladies have done your homework."

"We take our team very seriously." Kia said with a nod. "And our school's reputation too."

Chairperson Patsy quirked an eyebrow. "Are you willing to accept funding from the school knowing it might have to come out of some other team's budget?"

I kept eye contact, refusing to blink or bow. "We're willing to deal with cutbacks. And maybe some other people should be too. I don't see the boy's team cutting anything."

A murmur of agreement went around the table. Everything went hazy for me for the next few minutes, until a gavel hit the table and Chairperson Patsy spoke again. I will remember that moment forever. "The ayes have it. The Cornwall ladies soccer team is re-instated."

That was when we knew Viola was really lost to us. Come on, we called her, leave Illyria and come celebrate with us. But somewhere along the line, she had become determined to win her own battle, and we had decided to fight ours without her. We were supportive, but not connected.

Knowing that, it didn't hurt quite so much when she dropped by Friday night and asked us to come watch her play at Illyria on Saturday. She looked not quite like a boy, not really like a girl either. Certainly not the girl I knew, but maybe she wasn't that person anymore anyway.

"Of course we'll come. Viola…" I wasn't sure what to say. "You're a really good player."

She looked down, but smiled. "Thanks, Yvonne. I'm glad to hear that." And I knew she knew what was going to happen. It was better this way.

"We've already gotten word that some college scouts will be at our game against Laurelton Hall." I told her. I wanted to add "But as long as you got to play there, you didn't care about that, did you?"

She half-grinned. "That's great. I-"

"Viola," I interrupted her. "Maybe it's better if…if you stay."

She nodded. "I like it there. I let you down, didn't I?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm happy for you. I think we're better friends than teammates."

Viola nodded. "Good luck this year."

"You too," I smiled. "We'll be rooting for you tomorrow."


	4. Improbable Fiction: Dinklage

Improbable Fiction: Dinklage

So, the original concept for this piece was Dinklage trying to figure out how far his players would go to stay on his team, ultimately coming to the conclusion that they would be willing to become someone else if it meant keeping their identity as a member of the team. Is he happy about that? I don't know. 'Cause that's totally not what got written. (Though I still think it's an interesting question. Any takers?)

Right now I'm smack in the middle to trying to get a major _Play On_ scene between Duke and Dinklage to work out right (seriously, this scene is what's been holding up the last chapter for like, six months.) and one line in their argument made me realize that a lot of Dinklage's actions (Rather, actions that I have attributed to him) have been behind the scenes to all of the main characters, and what I meant to be a good hearted gesture on his part struck Duke's POV as mean. (That's not going to change in _Play On_, though, and they will have it out about that and a few other things). But in the interest of fairness, and a largely underrepresented character, here's a little taste Dinklage…

* * *

Improbable Fiction: Dinklage

Why would Dinklage deceive his team?

"I will believe thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character."

Hastings missed the team meeting, and walks in to the room several minutes afterward, out of breath and scared shitless. Might be about to cry. Dinklage curses under his breath.

Meetings are best kept short. He holds fast to the rule with everyone: staff meetings with Gold, who has an attention span approximately that of a below-average goldfish, team meetings with his athletes, most of whom couldn't see strategy if he clubbed them over the head with it, and especially with his captain, who scares him quite a bit more than he'd ever admit to.

It's not that he's afraid of what Orsino could do to him exactly, but more that he's terrified that he's going to really screw that boy up. For a teenager, he's already remarkably balanced: smart, talented, popular, and thoughtful. But therein lays the problem. He keeps trying to _be_ things, and Dinklage knows that one of those things is him. Orsino wants to be like _him. _

He'd really like to limit that. Orsino could do much better, but- let's just be honest here- he could also do worse. Dinklage cringes when he thinks about what has become of the keeper he'd tried to recruit four years ago. A nice, easygoing kid turned arrogant Cornwall mouthpiece, all because of the guidance of one none-too-savvy coach. It won't happen to Duke; Dinklage won't _allow_ it. He'll dog that kid for the rest of his life if that's what it takes to keep him from people like that.

But Hastings is yet another matter altogether. That kid should have signed up for a drama club instead. More suited to those skills, it would seem.

Dinklage had suspicions about the scrawny teen from day one, and this latest pulling-the-fire-alarm-in-the-bathroom stunt confirmed his worst fears.

Regardless, the mop of awkward brown hair peeks though the doorway after the meeting room has been empty for several minutes, shaking the coach out of his reverie.

"Uh…" Hastings stutters in a guttural voice; habitual now. Dinklage hasn't been to the opera since a disastrous outing with Gold some fifteen months ago, and admittedly was never to well-read on the subject to begin with. Is there a baritone equivalent of a falsetto? "Sorry, coach. I didn't mean to miss the meeting. I was, um…doin' stuff."

"Crack? Is that what you're doing? Because you must be on something to show up like this and think it is in any way acceptable."

He isn't stupid, and very much resents being treated like it. Resents having to deal with this little _Hastings_ matter. He'd swear that this was a test, some kind of prank from Gold, except that Hastings is just too clueless for anyone to trust such a thing to.

Sam Toures made the roster the year before last with less experience than Hastings, Cameron Driscoll a few years before that. Both of them had transferred in over the summer, and came to him first thing to find out what they had to do to play.

He told them, they did it, they played. Simple. Short.

"Well, see, Coach, last night there was this fire alarm, and-"

Hastings tended to make things much longer than they should be.

"Shut up." Hastings looks a little stunned at the blatant command, and perhaps that's part of the reason it works. Still, it looked like tears were imminent.

Dinklage presses on anyway. Tears and sympathy are irrelevant. This is Illyria; he discriminates only between those who can and can't hack it. All others stand equal before the Laws of the Game. Better to find out now than later who can make it on the field and who can't. Hastings hasn't been able to finish all the way through anything since day one at this school. Try outs, team activities (though Dinklage uses the word loosely). That can't happen in a game.

"Tell me. What the hell is your problem, Hastings?" Honesty and trust are everything in any team sport. If Hastings doesn't have it and give it with everyone else, there's no hope.

No response, no eye contact unless you count with his shoes, and Dinklage does not. He sighs. Not everyone is cut out for his unique brand of torture, and there was no point in belaboring it.

"Alright. I'll write a memo to Mrs. Oxley to get you on the intramural squad. They could use-"

"No." Hastings looks up, the fire under the ass firmly lit by the brush-off, and staggers backwards a step. "I can't." Can't explain the problem or go to intramurals? Dinklage doesn't know. The _I can't_ says many things all at once. _I have to. I need to. Please help. But please leave me alone. _Somehow, Hastings has some kind of inexplicable reason for this whole charade. "I'll work harder. Whatever you need me to do. Laps forever. Equipment duty all season. _This is where I have to be_."

And that's when Dinklage realizes that whatever it is that Hastings needs, it can't come from him. He won't be able to give too much time, too close an eye without having to report something that would ruin this child.

But maybe there's someone else. Maybe he can solve both his problems in one shot, so to speak. He has a captain that needs to learn that being himself is more than good enough and a second stringer that needs the same, but in a totally different way. Orsino is more and more like him every day, and talented to boot. That should be more than enough to help Hastings without being threatening. And Hastings is exactly the exasperating kind of player that should make Orsino realize that he could be so much better than his stoic coach. He's a strong you man, fierce and competitive, but his nature is more gentle than severe.

It would just take a little shove in the right direction. He would have to be subtle, of course, because Duke would stick strictly to playing the role of captain if it were perceived as an edict from him.

He dismisses Hastings and does a quick file check. In addition to scheduled practice time, they also share a chemistry class. Perhaps he'd take a little stroll down the hallway tomorrow, and see if he couldn't comment on Hastings to his captain as they left the science wing. Or even earlier, he might be able to match them up in tomorrow morning's workout.

It probably wouldn't take much. Dinklage could already see how much they needed to be friends. They were roommates already.

Roommates. Dinklage smacked his head. That might cause a few problems.

Surely, if time permitted, Dinklage could make a call and arrange for an alum to visit to speak with the team before the season got _too_ far along. It wasn't unheard of. Cameron had already graduated from college somewhere in the Midwest, but Sam was now a sophomore at NYU.

At the very least, Samantha Toures could be asked to 'offhandedly' show Hastings where the ladies locker room was. That would have to help. It would all even out eventually.

This was Illyria; there's no discrimination.

God willing, they'd all have their heads on straight for the Cornwall game.

* * *

I will have _Play On_ finished fairly soon (possibly even by New Years), and to answer a few questions I've gotten: Yes, there will be a sequel, and yes, it will go past the end of the movie. Look for the one-shot tentatively titled _Graduation Day_ coming in 2010!

Here's a tiny taste of what's brewing in last chapter of _Play On_ to keep you interested:

_Maybe what Duke had thought to be confirmation of trust had instead been an indictment. _

_He should have known. Letting the whole thing blow up in his face was his punishment, obviously. _

_Regardless, Duke shook his head at Dinklage and tried to shoulder past him, only to be stopped by a firm grasp on his shoulder. The gesture- normally comforting- was like placing a cap on a volcano, only serving to make the inevitable explosion more volatile. Duke twisted himself away from it without thought. _

_The coach's eyes tightened for less than a second; a wince on a lesser man. Duke hated himself for letting it sting._


End file.
